Books Poetry

Morning

Morning comes with sulphur sounds
blossom so bright it hurts the eyes
morning drafts with poplar tree
reaching a carved superiority
to a guileless sky, swallows return
from my old haunts, a summer stable
children playing in sun drenched yard
light bathes my deep sore spaces.
Morning comes with variant greens
behind closed eyelids I could be anywhere.
We could be as we used to be
small sounds of children snuffling
horses in an open field, swallows swooping to blue pool
along our drive walnut trees rustle in their fullness:;
as long as the light dances
as long as somewhere there is you
as long as I can see subtle variance of leaf
not the bitter white wastes at the edge of darkness
and someday I may know enough to reach
the ‘perfect sound of voiceless wisdom’.